Mr Darcy Deals with Rejection
by choirhawk12
Summary: a.k.a. "First Impressions Can Really Screw Up Marriage Proposals". What really happened after Elizabeth rejected Mr. Darcy's first proposal? Darcy's depression, fluff and maybe OOC. Rated T for LOTS of drinking.


**First Impressions Can Really Screw Up Marriage Proposals**

_Pride and Prejudice_ fanfic

(a.k.a. Mr. Darcy Deals with Rejection)

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><p>Setting: Pemberley, after Elizabeth Bennet broke Mr. Darcy's heart<p>

Notes: *Fluff, *Little bit OC, *LOTS of drinking, *Contains bits from _The Darcys & The Bingleys_ by Marsha Altman

Disclaimer: *I do not own the fabulous work that is _Pride and Prejudice_. All credit goes to Ms. Jane Austen and the amazing characters and stories she created, as well as Marsha Altman and her inside scoops into the lives of the Darcy and Bingley families.

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><p><em>Day 1:<em>

Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire was a sensible man. Though some—like one Miss Elizabeth Bennet—thought him proud, arrogant, selfish, and cold, he had always given the best of advice to others. He had protected his sister from a man whose intentions were far from pure, and he had saved his best friend from a marriage that would not be advantageous to either party.

But most of all, he had lost the woman he loved—or thought he loved—to his pride and arrogance. It wasn't entirely his fault, though. _She_ had been the one to point out his flaws. _She_ had been the one to refuse _him!_ No, Mr. Darcy was not in the wrong at all. After all, he had explained himself to her, didn't he? He wrote _her _the letter, didn't he? No! He had _nothing _to feel guilty about! Then why did he feel so terrible, so pathetic, so…so…heartbroken? Thinking of these things, Mr. Darcy poured another glass of brandy for himself. This was his third…or was it his fourth? He knew he had not exceeded five glasses just yet, but he was steadily climbing towards the fifth.

Hulled up in his private study, Mr. Darcy sat by the window glancing every so often at the enormous lake housed on the ground of his fine estate. How he wished he could drown himself in that lake. He quickly woke up from his stupor thinking about his sister. He needed to be there for her, to protect her from men who wished to do her harm. From men who were not worthy enough to seek her hand, from men who were distant and cold, who only cared about the well-being of themselves and their affairs…From men who were just like…him.

Or at least the "him" that _she_—he did not wish to use her name, lest to make the experience more painful—had witnessed and rejected.

With that thought, Mr. Darcy poured himself his fourth glass of brandy…or was it his fifth?

_Day 2:_

The sun had woken the master of Pemberley from a long, particularly uncomfortable sleep. Raising his head from the small settee, he damned whoever had opened the curtains, as well as whoever invented brandy, to the deepest pits of hell.

He sat up: his clothes were wrinkled beyond repair, his hair was a disheveled mess of brown curls, and judging by the strength of light that poured into the room from the tall windows of his study, he had slept half the day away. Looking around the room (surveying the damage that he had caused in his drunken rampage on inanimate objects), Mr. Darcy noticed the bottle of brandy that lay on the expensive rug his mother was so fond of.

Suddenly, waves of guilt crashed over him as he picked up the empty bottle. He had ruined his mother's favorite rug (why she was so attached to this particular rug was beyond his imagination). He had drunk an entire bottle of his best brandy. His study was a mess, his clothes were ruined, his head felt as though the devil himself had beaten him, and not to mention, his offer of marriage to _her_ was rejected.

Losing all sense of hope in trying to restore some composure, Mr. Darcy reached for his unfinished glass of brandy from the previous night. It was going to be a long rest of the day for him, so he might as well make it somewhat tolerable. Gulping down the rest of the brown liquid, he drank away every bit of guilt that had come over him in the past five minutes. The steady rhythm his head made soon became a dull pulse, but was then taken over by a new feeling. His stomach had begun to churn. Mr. Darcy knew that this would only end in hot tears of pain as he emptied his stomach into the vase that resided on the credenza.

Vowing to never again drink large amounts of brandy in a single night—and on an empty stomach, no less—Mr. Darcy slowly made the long and arduous trek back to his bedchamber. Without so much as an attempt to remove his clothing, Mr. Darcy climbed into bed, pulling the curtains around him. He succumbed to sleep quickly, letting the pounding of his head lull him off into dreamless bliss.

_Day 3:_

On the third day of Mr. Darcy's incapacitation, Georgiana had returned from a visit in Town to find her dear brother in bed, his study a disaster, empty bottles of brandy, and half finished glasses of wine and imported rum.

Shocked beyond all doubt, Georgiana immediately fulfilled her roll as mistress of the house, making everything in working order once more. She ate dinner with her brother, keeping the wine far out of his reach, and read to him by the fire. This routine went on for the next few days, which by that time the master of Pemberley became something of his old self again. It did not last long however.

…

_Day 7:_

On the seventh day of his "grieving," Georgiana begged her brother to recount what had caused him so much pain and end up in the state she found him. Then there in the comfort of his sister's presence, Fitzwilliam Darcy: the master of Pemberley, owner of half of Derbyshire, cried into his sixteen-year-old sister's lap over a woman who did not love him. _She_ had refused _him_. Georgiana tried to comfort and soothe her brother, but little could be done to placate him. Helping her brother into bed, Georgiana truly saw the love that he had for this woman—whoever she was.

Tucked under the sheets, Mr. Darcy felt foolish. Being helped into bed by his little sister after crying was the ultimate low. He had to change. He had to show _her_ that _she _didn't break him, that _she _didn't make him feel like dying every time he thought about what happened that day at Rosings. It wasn't going to be easy, but it was necessary. And the first thing he needed to do was to apologize…starting with his sister.

…

_Day 10:_

Not knowing how to apologize for his behaviour over the last week, Mr. Darcy did the only thing he knew he could do to appease his only sister: he bought her a piano. Though Georgiana was not the sort of girl who could easily be paid off with an expensive gift, but if it was a gift that would mean more to her than anything else, it could very well be done.

The new piano had arrived, and Georgiana wasted no time in thanking her brother. She played daily and it made Mr. Darcy feel a little better about himself. _Small steps,_ he thought as his sister finished another song. The past few days had been pleasant; taking walks, fencing, playing with his dogs, and he was even allowed a glass of wine at dinner, of which he did not even finish.

Things had indeed been wonderful for the two siblings. What happened at Rosings and the state that Mr. Darcy had been in for the past week became nothing more than a mere memory. There was no more talk of what had happened between Mr. Darcy and _her_, but it was the only thing that woke him up sometimes in the middle of the night.

If everything was going so well for him now, then why couldn't he do the one thing that he had wanted to do since the first time he saw her?

Say her name?

Groaning in frustration, Mr. Darcy got out of bed and went to his study. Grabbing a new bottle of brandy, he sat down and poured himself a glass. He soon was down to the last of the bottle. Pouring the contents into his empty (again) glass, he wondered if _Elizabeth _was having just as hard a time as he was trying not to feel like there was something missing.


End file.
